


The World Askance and Nothing New

by Pforte



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, M/M, No Healing Cock, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pforte/pseuds/Pforte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some questions should have been asked by others, long ago, but not asking them now isn't an option, not for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Askance and Nothing New

**Author's Note:**

> This is most definitely not your usual, voyeuristic abuse fic focussing on severe bodily harm and sex. In case this seems familiar, I wrote and posted this fic elsewhere before Into Darkness was released.

If there is one thing Jim Kirk can rely on, it is for his CMO to fix things. It’s been like this from day one, when right after they had landed, McCoy, bitching about infections and bacteria, looked after his bruises and barely-scabbed knuckles. He would fix Jim when he needed fixing after training accidents, he would fix his patients or at least try to, and he’d take it personal if he couldn’t. Once he fixed Jim’s bookshelf, even though he grumbled that he was a doctor, not a carpenter. Jim thinks that it’s in his nature, that he can’t help trying, trying, always trying. It’s what makes him a great physician and there is no one Jim trusts more with his life or the lives of his crew. McCoy isn’t easily fooled though and his bullshit-meter is _honed_ ; if there isn’t anything that needs fixing, one shouldn’t even think of wasting his time. No one would ever accuse McCoy of mollycoddling his patients – Jim suspects that he doesn’t even know that the word exists. And nobody _likes_ spending time in sickbay, least of all Doctor McCoy, who prefers his office, the lab or the bridge. Jim thinks that the existence of sick people in _his_ med bay offends him or something.

Which is why Jim is quite baffled when, after the routine physical the colonists requested, McCoy refuses to release the boy from his care. The boy, Aidan, looks healthy and vivacious in a way only teenage boys can look. His green eyes are clear and bright and he watches his surroundings curiously, taking everything in, asking a thousand and one questions. 

“You’re telling me he’s too sick to be beamed back?” Jim asks sceptically and they both look at the boy who’s chatting with Nurse Chapel with the enthusiasm of a very gangly, overexcited puppy. 

“Since when is _looking_ at people an adequate way of making a diagnosis? You’ll have to defer to my _professional_ judgement when I tell you that he’s not fit to return planetside, yet. I have another round of tests to run, Captain,” McCoy deigns to inform him in his no-nonsense voice that is reserved for moments like these, when they are both playing their roles and wearing their masks. 

Jim straightens and gives the boy another scrutinizing look. They only resort to this kind of tone if one of them is severely pissed off or thinks that the other is taking advantage of their friendship and feels the need to thump on his authority, and Jim can’t remember doing anything wrong. Hell, he hasn’t been in medical bay all day. But _all right_ , now that the good doctor set the tone, he’s going to play along. “What is your diagnosis, Doctor?” he asks, tone clipped.

McCoy spins around, chart in hand, frowning, his eyebrows nearly shadowing his eyes, as though he forgot that Jim was still there. “I’ll brief you as soon as I know. Now go away.”

Touchy and absent-minded, no, _single_ -minded and focused on some abstract problem. Jim’s got the feeling that something isn’t quite right. He watches McCoy talk to Chapel and his patient, then shrugs it off and leaves med bay. Because he trusts McCoy to know what’s best. That’s how their friendship works. 

But he can’t quite put the situation out of his mind as the day passes on. Jim hopes it isn’t anything serious since he would hate to have to tell the parents that young Aidan was dying of some horrible, incurable disease. He decides to drop by med bay after Gamma shift and see if there is any news. Besides, McCoy might be in a better mood then. But, oh well, who is he kidding? 

***

The first thing he hears upon re-entering sickbay is laughter. Not McCoy’s, he rarely laughs and it usually takes quite a bit of effort on Jim’s part, but Aidan’s. It’s the high laughter of a boy who hasn’t gone through the vocal change yet but who doesn’t sound like a child anymore, either. Jim’s taken aback since this is the last thing he expected from someone who is allegedly too sick to be released from McCoy’s care. 

“Am I interrupting anything?” he asks and the laughter stops at once. McCoy turns his head and _scowls_ at him. Oh for heaven’s sake, what has he done now? He’s the Captain, he’s allowed to ask questions. “Doctor,” he adds, expressively. “Looks like your patient is better.”

“Dammit, Jim. Not now.” 

Jim doesn’t like this at all. It is not like his best friend to keep things from him, especially if it doesn’t concern his own health but that of someone in his care. As long as the boy is on the Enterprise it is _Jim_ who is ultimately responsible for him. But prickly as he may be, McCoy catches on his mood immediately. He gets up from his seat beside Aidan’s bed, leans forward to pat the boy’s arm and then, without another look in Jim’s directions, he heads straight for his office. The boy looks lost and younger than only moments ago, now that McCoy is gone. Jim smiles at him, a little helplessly, and then hurries after McCoy.

“What the hell is going on here, Bones? You know that I usually back up your medical decisions but you don’t make a habit of keeping me in the dark. And I _am_ in the dark. In case you’re still wondering, I don’t like it,” Jim says the moment they are alone behind closed doors.

McCoy’s face is dark with anger and frustration and Jim would really, _really_ like to know who incurred his wrath and, if it was him, well, he’d like to know the reason, too. And then McCoy sighs heavily and leans against his desk, propping himself on his hands. 

“The kid’s being abused, Jim, so spare me. Your hurt feelings aren’t my main concern right now. I won’t release Aidan until I know his story. You and I both know that I can’t do a damn thing about it otherwise.”

“He’s being abused,” Jim repeats stupidly because it just doesn’t make sense.

“Don’t look at me as if I’ve grown a second head, man,” McCoy says surly and something about him is still _off_. 

Jim tilts his head and gives him a hard look. “Is there a reason for your bad temper? I mean, apart from the obvious? It’s not as if _I_ did it. And however did you get this idea in the first place? The boy looks the perfect picture of health. Are there bruises? Cuts? Burns? Anything?” 

His own childhood was anything but sheltered, so, sadly, he is familiar with the signs. Not from personal experience, no. His stepfather’s words used to cut deep but he never went further than that, fiercely condemned people who did so, something for which Jim is glad now, even though he appreciates Frank in preciously little else. He doesn’t know what he would have done if things had been different, doesn’t trust himself to answer the question faithfully and not be horrified at himself. 

Meanwhile, McCoy remains suspiciously silent. 

“Bones,” Jim says carefully. “It’s not like you to jump to conclusions.”

“I don’t,” McCoy all but _growls_. “Am I or am I not the chief medical officer of the Enterprise? You gotta trust that I know a bit more about the tell-tale signs than you do.” Something in the way McCoy says the last part – his voice tinged with acrimony – makes Jim do a double-take. He’s tense, his jaw is set and his eyes are burning. 

No, Jim thinks. No, it can’t be.

“Okay,” he says. “Whatever you think is best.” Because this isn’t the place and Jim isn’t ready for this, not yet. McCoy didn’t expect such an easy victory. When he looks after Jim, he’s doing the eyebrow thing, which questions Jim’s sanity more effectively than anything he could say. 

***

Jim thinks that McCoy may have a point, as he sneaks into his best friend’s room at an ungodly hour. Because this may very well end with a punch in his face and a week-long silent treatment. But he _needs_ to know, needs to be sure. 

McCoy is sound asleep if the rhythmic snoring is any indication. It’s somewhat soothing, Jim ponders, as he crawls into McCoy’s bed, stripped to his shirt and briefs. Unsurprisingly, the movement wakes McCoy, who, like many doctors, is a light sleeper.

“Nnghjim?”

“Who else?” 

“’nless it’s an ‘mergency, be quiet. Mmsleepin’,” he slurs. Jim feels almost bad for waking him, seeing that he is so evidently exhausted. Almost. He skids closer, causing McCoy to turn onto his side, away from him. “’m serious. Go to sleep or go ‘way.” 

Jim smiles and sneaks an arm around McCoy’s waist, close enough for a kiss to the nape of his neck now. The fabric of the t-shirt is warm against his face and he angles his head further down to breathe in the mixture of detergent and Bones. “I need to ask you something. After that, you can go back to sleep. I promise you the most spectacular blow job in the morning to make up for it. C’mon, Bones.” He punctuates his words with light, persuasive kisses. 

McCoy groans in frustration but he sounds more awake. “All right, all right.” He yawns heartily. “What is it? And you had better make it quick.” 

The only problem is that Jim has no idea how to ask _that_. It’s not that he and Bones don’t talk. McCoy grumbles, mutters, complains and snarks incessantly and it’s Jim’s turn to tease, challenge, mock and brag. It’s just that they do much better without words when it comes to _things_. Big ominous things. _Issues_. And it’s usually McCoy needling confessions out of Jim and his technique – persistent looming, colourful threats and reproachful eyebrows – won’t work on him. Jim’s instincts, however, are rarely wrong. Unfortunately, one can’t say the same thing about his judgement, something of which he _is_ aware, no matter what Spock thinks. So now his instinct tells him to be blunt and see how McCoy reacts, even if this means being kicked out of the room. There is, after all, a slim chance that he is wrong. A very slim chance. 

“How did you know? About Aidan.”

McCoy stiffens. “I told you, I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to know these things. That’s why Starfleet pays me and puts up with my amiable nature. Now give it a rest, Jim.”

Jim doesn’t. He waits a few heartbeats, then asks, “Who?”

“Who what? Dammit, if you’re here to pester me, you’d better leave right fucking now. I’m not in the mood, I’m sleeping.” He tries to move away, burying his head in the pillow, but Jim only tightens his grip and follows McCoy’s moves, who promptly mutters something about barnacles. 

“Not a chance in hell. Who?” Jim repeats, more persistently. He slides his hand under McCoy’s shirt, seeking skin, and moves his palm over his stomach, rubbing it in small circles. It’s something that always works and he feels the muscles under his hand marginally relax under the rhythmic caress. 

“It’s nothing. Let it lie,” McCoy says, sounding more distant than usual. One doesn’t have to be so attuned to McCoy’s quirks as Jim to know that he isn’t a very good liar. The sinking feeling in Jim’s stomach intensifies. Sometimes he hates being right, especially when it means that McCoy is haunted by even more shadows of his past. When it comes to sob stories they’re probably even but contrary to McCoy he refuses to look back and let the past rule his present. 

“Bones, I can’t… Hell, I don’t know. It’s just. You know about a lot of the shit I’ve done in my life and I told you because I thought you could take it. You’d still be there, no matter what.”

“I’d draw the line at murder, Jim,” McCoy says dryly and Jim feels that he’s done right, that this is the path he has to follow to get McCoy to talk.

“Yeah, you say that _now_.” He presses another kiss against McCoy’s neck, never letting up on the belly rub. “I’d do the same for you. Including murder.” McCoy’s body shakes with something akin to silent laughter and it’s a small victory but it is one. 

“Who?” Jim asks for a third time and feels his friend go still, then exhale in defeat.

“It’s nothing I’m gonna talk about ever again, understood?”

“Yeah,” Jim answers and he doesn’t like that he succeeded, doesn’t _want_ to hear this, but he strains his ears anyway.

McCoy’s voice is low and steady when he speaks. “When I was eleven a tornado destroyed our house and pretty much the entire town. No school, no mall, no nothing. I was sent to live with my uncle’s folks.”

“Okay,” Jim says when McCoy stops there. 

“My parents knew they were doing me a favor. I liked life on a farm. It was a boy’s dream and I stayed nearly a year.” McCoy shifts and rubs his face, not that Jim can see in the dark. It’s just such a familiar gesture that he knows what his face looks like, how McCoy’s brows are furrowed and how he tries to rub sleep and memories off. “My uncle,” he continues and Jim holds his breath, “was a good man. He didn’t have kids and I was like a son to him. A good man. Always busy and out and about though, he didn’t know a damn thing. You see, Jim, I was raised in a certain way. I couldn’t…I just wasn’t able to defend myself against her.” 

_Her_? For a few seconds, Jim’s mind is reeling. 

“My aunt Annie. She’s a tiny person and I was tall for my age. Gangly and thin but tall. Nearly as tall as her. It was hot that summer, I remember waking up sweating. And I used to run around in nothing but shorts. I had so many sunburns that my mom called me a crab. But when it started I made sure to wear t-shirts so that nobody saw. She used to grab my arm, high up, and drag me into my room. Nobody wondered and I was too embarrassed to tell.”

“Embarrassed?”

“What else?” McCoy says and the thing that gets Jim is that he _means_ it, sounds it. “It’s all ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ where I’m from, Jim. You don’t talk back to grown women when you’re a boy. You gotta treat them like ladies. But on the other hand…well, boys can’t lose face and they don’t take beatings from girls. They just _don’t_.”

“No one knew? Not even your uncle?” Jim asks quietly. He knows what that is like. If his mother had known only half of the things Frank had called him, she would never have left her sons in his care. 

“God, no. I made sure of that. Can you imagine what this would have done to my family? No, Jim, that was out of the question. And when I had to go to the doctor with a concussion I made sure to have my story ready. He never suspected and I was glad then. But some part of me…dammit, some part of me was angry and helpless and hoping for someone to _see_.”

“Christ, Bones. What did she do to you?”

“Nothing horrible. A few bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, pressure marks, that sort of thing. Back then I thought it was my own fault for not doing my chores quickly enough.”

“ _Nothing horrible_? You’re kidding me, right?” Jim hasn’t even noticed that he’s hovering over McCoy. He should be calm and supportive and let McCoy do the talking but he can’t help it, he’s blazing with indignation. McCoy may have some misplaced sense of honour and loyalty but Jim grew up differently. That woman hurt his Bones when he was just a kid and she made him feel ashamed and guilty for something she did to him. 

Skin slaps on skin when McCoy shoves him off. “I don’t need this, Jim. It’s been a long time and I’m fine now.” 

Unperturbed, Jim curls back around McCoy, folding into his former position. It takes a few minutes for McCoy to relax and lean back into him. Some questions should have been asked by others, long ago, but not asking them now isn't an option, not for him. So when he’s sure that he’s not going to be pushed away, Jim asks, “Now? You’re fine _now_?”

After a long moment of silence, he feels the shrug. “Back then I was acting up. Started smoking, played pranks that went too far, failed a few tests in school. My uncle, he had a talk with me, nice and understanding, the way he was in everything. And when everything failed, he called my parents. They took me back two weeks later and things went back to normal. My uncle died ten years later and Aunt Annie…she left me everything when she followed him. I sold the farm and it paid a lot of bills I wouldn’t have been able to shoulder right out of med school.”

“She paid you off for your silence, you mean,” Jim says and could have bitten his tongue off the second the words left his mouth. Well, fuck. He is _really_ bad at this. 

“You really have a way of making confession time warm and fuzzy, Jim,” McCoy snaps. “I thought of it as her way to apologize. She wasn’t…I couldn’t hate her then and I can’t hate her now. She did wrong. I’m the last person who’d argue that. But, Jim, in a way she’s the reason I’m here.”

“Come again?” Jim is stumped. This is the last thing he expected to hear. The thought that _Aunt Annie_ died before he could tell her what’s what makes him irrationally angry. He isn’t used to feeling protective of McCoy, who is usually more than capable of defending himself – with a hypospray if necessary. 

“The doctor I went to see, he was old and set in his ways but he should have known that my injuries weren’t accidental. He should have _known_ that my excuses came a little too fast, were too practised. Remember when I asked you about the scar on your ankle? You had to _think_ about it. And people who really fall down a flight of stairs don’t go into detail on how they managed to fall months or years after their accident. I learnt only later that lies are best kept simple and brief. Boys Aidan’s age don’t know that yet.”

“And Aidan…”

“I found a few old fractures and he went into the most detailed report of how these came about that I ever heard. He also tries too hard to please and, as perky as he looks, he shrinks back when someone turns and moves too quickly. He probably doesn’t even notice, it’s instinctive. I’m sure that whoever smacks him around is someone he loves and makes excuses for. Someone who cares for him and only loses his temper occasionally.”

“Someone like your aunt.” 

McCoy exhales heavily. “Yes. Just because I know the psychological theories behind every dissociative avoidance strategy doesn’t mean that I’m immune to them. I’m not gonna sit in a room and learn how to confront the memory of an old lady that’s been dead for eight years. I had a good childhood and one bad year. I can live with that.”

 _But he can’t go back and fix it_. Anger tightens his chest when he thinks of just how deeply these few months affected McCoy’s life. He may not have become a doctor if it hadn’t been for his aunt. No, thinks Jim, he would have. It’s what McCoy _is_ , not what he does. But he might not have the same passion, the same stubborn determination he has now. 

“Are you happy now?” McCoy asks surly but there is something else, a certain waver in his voice. What is he afraid Jim will do? Laugh? 

“No, of course I’m not,” Jim replies, hurt at the mere suggestion. McCoy huffs and turns until he’s face to face with Jim, his breath hot against Jim’s cheek. 

“You know what I mean. Some things don’t need to be dragged out in the open and this is one of them. _Was_ one of them.” His voice is heavy with sarcasm. “And did you ever stop to think that there was a reason I didn’t want you to know? Jim, sometimes you’re such a bone-headed, snot-nosed--”

Jim kisses him. He found out long ago that this is the only effective way to shut McCoy up when he’s warmed to a topic. McCoy hmphs against his lips and, despite the dark, Jim knows that he’s scowling. So he rakes his fingers through the short hair on McCoy’s neck and deepens the kiss. For a moment he gives in. Then McCoy pulls back with a long-suffering sigh. Damn, he almost had him.

“Do I have your word that Aidan doesn’t have to return until I’m sure that I can help?” 

Help him, fix him, yes. Jim is somewhat pleased that McCoy isn’t distracted so easily and that he is willing to employ Jim’s own strategies of, um, persuasion. 

“If that makes you stop scowling and piercing the darkness with your eyebrow of doom, I’m sure I can make a few more excuses, yes,” he says, smiling. McCoy snorts and entwines his left leg with Jim’s, settling in. It’s comfortable. Jim wonders if he should say more. He knows better than to tell McCoy that this wasn’t his fault, that he was a victim, that that blasted woman shouldn’t have gotten away with it. He knows McCoy knows. But this isn’t a question of knowledge and reason; guilt and shame are irrational little bastards and they come and go uninvited. 

“Bones,” he says and reaches for McCoy, draping his arm over him and tracing patterns on his back.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“For sharing my most humiliating memories with you?” asks McCoy but there is no edge to his voice.

“No, that would be something like, say, throwing up on our first and only date.”

McCoy groans and slaps Jim’s arm. Or rather tries to, he only grazes him in the dark. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I had food poisoning. Will you _ever_ let me live it down?”

“Not very likely.” Jim grins, rubbing his foot over McCoy’s calf. He hears him yawn. 

“Jim, I mean it. I don’t want to talk about this ever again.”

“I know. It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” And Jim knows that he’ll have to be indignant and angry and sad for McCoy’s sake in silence. But he feels all that and he will for a long time. Because no one else has and because Bones thinks it’s nothing and because he deserves better. 

He’s willing to reconsider when, just as he’s dozing off, McCoy turns in his sleep and elbows him in the neck. 

***

“Wuzzat?” Jim mumbles groggily, as a really annoyingly persistent person shakes him awake. Ruthlessly. Ugh, whoever it is will be marooned. He tries to glare but that’s not easy at all, not before he manages to actually open his eyes. He blinks until McCoy’s face comes into shape. He’s hovering over him, sleep-tussled hair standing in all directions, lips pursed, one eyebrow raised _sarcastically_. 

“Welcome back to the living. My shift starts in 30 minutes.”

“So?” Jim croaks.

“So how about that blow job?” The corners of his mouth are twitching but that’s all the indication Jim gets that this is McCoy’s idea of being funny. 

More awake now, Jim grins at him. “And they say I’m easy.” He stretches gloriously under McCoy’s intense stare, knowing full well how his shirt rides up a few inches, exposes his stomach and hipbone. 

He draws it out and, when he moans demonstratively, heartily, and _wriggles_ , McCoy groans, “I hate you,” and drags down Jim’s briefs. 

When people talk about cock-sucking lips, they should think of McCoy. Watching him lick them is enough to give Jim very vivid ideas. On top of that, McCoy seems to approach blow jobs with the same single-minded intensity as peculiar diseases, something Jim finds insanely hot. 

“Yeah,” he gasps a few minutes later. “I hate you, too.”

***

Later, when Jim had a shower and breakfast, when he’s dressed and listening to reports on the bridge, he lets his mind wander. Not far enough to miss anything Uhura is telling him, mind you, but far enough to contemplate what he learned the night before. He recaps McCoy’s story and the more he thinks of it, the more appalled he becomes. It’s hard to imagine McCoy as a boy, a helpless gangly kid, outspoken and blunt as he is now. But no child should have to worry about the consequences of _telling_ when it comes to abuse. McCoy should have been able to tell his parents or his doctor or _anyone_. He should most definitely not have lived with the anger and isolation that comes with having secrets for years, decades even. Shoulda, coulda, woulda – life ain’t fair and nobody knows that better than Jim Kirk.

_Nothing horrible. A few bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, pressure marks, that sort of thing._

Not to mention a concussion that had to be treated by a doctor. Jim shakes with anger at the mere thought of it. He’s gone through some pretty tough things himself but he was older then and able to leave. Or fight back. 

“Captain? Everything all right?” Uhura asks him, frowning.

“Yeah.” He gives her his trademark grin and she gets back to her report. 

***

His communicator chimes after Beta shift. “Kirk here.”

“Jim, I think you should come to med bay.”

“Okay, on my way.” Jim pushes away his plate, nods to Sulu and Chekov with whom he’s been sharing his meal, and makes his way to sickbay. 

Aidan looks more solemn when he arrives but there is also something about his posture, something lighter, something Jim didn’t know was missing. As if he’s relieved to have a big secret off his chest. Jim smiles grimly. “Hello, Aidan.” McCoy nods to him from beside the bed, a PADD in hand. Strangely enough, no nurse is in sight. 

“I got us some privacy because Aidan here has something to tell you.”

Jim smiles his most open, winning smile. “All right. Let’s hear it.” 

And slowly, haltingly, the boy tells Jim about a strong, capable man, a man everyone in the colony looks up to, a man whose standards aren’t easily met, a man with principles who drives himself and others on mercilessly, and who, every now and then, loses his temper when he loses himself to drink. His father. This time Jim listens without interrupting, listens to the story of a bleak life, filled with hard work and little praise, yet a life full of love and family, too. There is no real jurisdiction on the planet, not yet. The colonists are too few for more than a council. And now Jim will have to tell them that one of their most upstanding members is a child abuser and he won’t take pleasure in it. The boy clearly loves his father and doesn’t want him out of his life but he’s also clearly and decidedly not fond of being beaten whenever the man loses control. If there ever was a no-win scenario, this is it. 

“I’m glad you told me. It was the right thing to do,” Jim says when Aidan is finished. The boy looks as though he wants to believe him. 

He straightens. “Bones, a word in your office.” 

When they’re finally alone, Jim lets go of his emotions, curses verbosely and kicks the chair in front of him. It’s not only Aidan’s father he wants to beat into a pulp and white-hot anger constricts his chest, takes his breath away. 

“Jim,” is all McCoy says and he _stops_ , breathing heavily, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, lacking a target. 

“We need to go over all our options so that we can undo this clusterfuck without offending the colonists and destroying the project and--”

“Jim.”

“--I won’t allow them to sweep this under the rug, though. It’s--”

“ _Jim_ ,” McCoy says again with more emphasis and Jim shuts up. “It isn’t ever going to be sunshine and rainbows for that boy but it’s going to get better in the long run.” 

And maybe McCoy is right and they can help, can do the right thing. But it still feels as though it isn’t enough. 

“How can you be sure?”

McCoy actually smiles at this and for a split second Jim can see the boy he used to be. “Because I’m a doctor, Jim. I can fix this.”

 

_FIN_


End file.
